


only if for a night

by glassbones



Series: road that leads you home [4]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oh Boy - Freeform, Why Did I Write This?, as in George comforts Gilbert with his dad bod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9179962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones/pseuds/glassbones
Summary: "This is a spectacularly bad idea," George breathes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destinae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinae/gifts).



"This is a spectacularly bad idea," George breathes. The table is cold and unforgiving where George's back is pressed against it, polished oak reminding him in rather painful detail just by how many years is Gilbert younger than him.

"Stop touching my dick then," the other man says bitingly. George obediently stops touching it.

He's rigid, so tensed up that for an insane second George is genuinely worried he might snap in half. The talks with Spain are a hot mess, Adams having absolutely shat the bed, and Gilbert has been more or less forced to take charge of the negotiations and deal with the consequences himself, since apparently no one else in George's staff can _fucking speak Spanish_ ; and when George suggested they hire a translator the board of directors mumbled something about expenses and the pros of direct interpersonal communication. When he later asked if maybe they should just hold the meetings in English, Gilbert just went on a huge rant about _machismo_ and cultural differences.

"What do you want me to do?" George cautiously asks. They're pretty much alone in the building this late at night, the staff happily having left them to go over today's agenda and figure out where exactly did Adams fuck up and how to fix it.

Gilbert frowns. It's all about his needs for George today, the palpable frustration and anger emanating from the young man being more concerning to him than the failed negotiations, than George's own want. " _Babe_ ," he has to carefully grip Gilbert's shoulder when he doesn't respond, eyes red and slightly glassy where he stares at nothing.

"Huh?" he starts, wandering a little before regaining the sharp focus that's usually concentrated on charts and graphs, all of it now fixed on George. George licks his lips.

Gilbert catches the movement, a tentative hand coming to rest against his jaw, thumb touching just the corner of George's mouth. George swallows, consciously angling his head back, throws his thighs open to accommodate Gilbert more comfortably, let him move closer. The edge of the table is digging into his lower back, but it doesn't quite register. This is completely uncharted territory for them. George swallows again.

Gilbert takes all that for the encouragement it was intended to be, clever fingers lightly mapping the contours of his face, as if reacquainting himself with George's features.

George closes his eyes when Gilbert slowly slips two fingers between his lips, concentrates on the mostly unfamiliar feeling against his tongue, tasting salt and tobacco (Gilbert is not habitually a smoker but he smokes when he's feeling especially stressed, like he is now)- the pads of Gilbert's fingers are unexpectedly rough and George is suddenly lightheaded, fatigue mixing with desire mixing with elated anxiety at the thought of what can come next.

Gilbert's pupils are blown wide, mouth slack, chest rising and falling rapidly in an uneven rhythm. "Turn around," he quietly orders, eyes unconsciously gravitating towards where his fingers are still inside George's mouth. The older man complies, licks his lips nervously - an annoying habit he has tried and failed to break for longer than he can remember, - and he knows he should be more concerned by the fact that he's very clearly _not_ in control, but the nerves and anticipation only make the arousal bloom brighter somewhere in his belly. George is painfully hard.

"Getting nervous, are you?" Gilbert whispers from behind him, one hand tightly coiled around George's midsection.

It's strange, having the tables turned like this. It's not a bad kind of strange, George muses, and then Gilbert bites at his earlobe. George's gasp is more pleasure than surprise, one hand coming to press Gilbert closer to him from where it was firmly planted on the desk. "Oh God. Please."

"Oh God, please what?" Gilbert demands, his free hand reaching George's stomach and gravitating lower. He sounds different. Dangerous, like there's a promise hidden behind his words. George hisses.

"I don't know. Anything. Anything you want," he is rewarded with a kiss to the top of his jawline, which makes him shiver. Gilbert is practically draped over his back, warm and insistent, his erection pressing against George's posterior regions. 

"Oh, I want _lots_ of things." Gilbert steps back. The contrast between his warmth and the cool air of the room is maddening, and George aches for more. "Undress yourself."

He readily complies. George wonders if either of them knows what they're getting themselves into, the pressing need not allowing him to wonder about it for too long.

He supposes they'll know in the morning after.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a personal vendetta to stella. thanks for nothing you witch


End file.
